Page 7 of The Way We Score

The hen makes a low cluck-cluck noise as I cuddle her under my arm.

“She used to be one of my best layers.” Mom’s tone is forlorn. “Now she stands and gazes at the horizon.”

“Maybe she’s pining for the fjords.”

“What?” Mom’s nose wrinkles as she pulls back her chin.

I’m about to explain it’s a Monty Python reference when a high, cheerful voice greets us from the sidewalk leading around the house from the street.

“Hi, Ms. Plum! Hi, Liv!” Dylan Bradford skips up waving one hand while balancing a glass dish in the other. “How are all the hennies doing today?”

“Dylan!” Mom cries, smiling and waving. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, I’ll tell you.” Dylan stops at the door, and I noticeshe also has a brown paper bag under her arm. “I was reading an article, and it said chickens love hot peppers! Can you believe that? They can’t taste capsaicin, and apparently peppers are really good for them.”

I’ve known Dylan my whole life, and I’m always glad to see her. It’s the giant cautiously strolling up behind her who sends my stomach flipping like a stone to my feet.

Garrett’s a foot taller than his sister, and so much broader. His hands are in the pockets of his jeans, and he’s wearing a navy henley that clings to his toned chest and muscular arms.

When his blue eyes meet mine, a hint of a smile curls his lips, and electricity flashes through my body, sending my heart thumping like a rabbit.

“I brought all my scraps for you to feed them.” Dylan is always so excited to share her love of deathly hot peppers. “I heard Henny Lane isn’t feeling so good. Maybe they’ll give her some pep?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Mom turns her walker, carefully lifting it over the obstacles as she picks her way to the door. “Let me see what you’ve got. I might not want to share.”

Dylan happily complies. She knows how much my mom loves hot peppers—unlike me.

Opening the bag, she gives it a shake. “I’ve got the tips and stems of black hungarians, poblanos, jalapeños, a few red habaneros, and a serrano.”

“My goodness!” Mom’s at the door, lifting her walker over the threshold so she can join Dylan at the small picnic table.

I’m left alone with the chickens to face the man who was my first love. The man who holds my history, my hopes, my fears. The star of all my high school dreams.

I swallow a gulp and do my best to fade into the background, trying to seem very busy inspecting the row of empty chicken boxes. Two large Cochins are on their nests, and I return Henny Lane to hers. I don’t think he can see my fingers tremble.

“You doing all right, Ms. P?” Garrett’s voice is pure warmth,and my body tenses. “I hope it’s okay that I tagged along to check on all the girls.”

“Garrett Bradford, you are always welcome here!” Mom exclaims loudly. “I haven’t seen you in a raccoon’s age.”

“You know, raccoons only live about two or three years.” Garrett’s eyebrows crinkle as if he’s apologizing for bursting her bubble. “So I guess that old saying is wrong—unless you mean ithasn’tbeen a while.”

“Is that so?” Mom frowns. “It always seems like those pesky little robbers hang around way longer than three years.”

“Now a naked mole-rat lives thirty years.” He holds her thin arm, helping her maneuver her walker across a square paver.

“Garrett Bradford!” She scolds, giving him a little swat on the arm. “I would never call you a rat, especially not anakedone.” She whispers the wordnaked. “It’s undignified.”

I bite my bottom lip to keep from snorting. Garrett’s one of the few people in Newhope who always shared my goofy sense of humor and loves giving my too-serious mom a hard time.

It’s part of the reason I loved him so much. For so long.

“To be fair,” he continues, “raccoons aren’t much better than rats, naked or clothed.”

“What in the world are you two talking about?” Dylan cries, hopping over to assist my mom in her slow pilgrimage across the small yard. “We’re here to help my favorite fancy chicken feel better, not talk about naked rats and raccoons!”

My head ducks as I swallow a laugh. Mom allows Dylan to help her scooch her way to the table where the glass casserole dish and the brown bag of peppers wait.

“Olivia, bring Henny Lane over here and let’s see if she’ll eat a pepper.” Mom pauses to turn back, not seeming to notice my fluttering hands and squirming stomach. “Garrett, you can help Olivia… Oh!”

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